


Say My Name

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fedal - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: Future fic, after the tour, out on Rafa's boat.
Relationships: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 32
Kudos: 77





	Say My Name

We still go out on his boat now and then, the Beethoven, which by now he can steer himself out to sea where we fish for a while and then put the rods away. My wife knows what we’re doing, his wife knows what we’re doing. Nothing we talk about. It is what it is.

He’s always been right about the sea. When we’re out here and the sun is going down, the sky fading from deep, dark orange up through hues of purple and pink and, to the east, the darkness seeping down towards the horizon, it’s the kind of thing that can make you believe in heaven. And him there beside me, his body as glorious as it always was when we were on the tour. There’s nothing like watching that sky, a wineglass in my hand, knowing that soon, after he cooks something on the grill and we eat it and wash it down with the wine he stashes in a cooler between us, after that I’ll get to hold him down and fuck him and make him come apart. Can you imagine Rafael underneath you, sweating and groaning, his ass as round as ever, his biceps flexed, his velvet skin glowing and ripe? I eat him like a peach. I drink him down. I need his body as much as he needs mine. Even just now and then.

It’s always been like this. I used to salivate over him in the locker room and he flirted outrageously with me. The way he was when he was long-haired and young, brash and keenly aware of how hot he was. Now he’s mellowed a bit, but he can still turn it on. He wears those little swimming shorts and he knows I could drop to my knees just to run my tongue up the inside of his thigh.

“Here,” he says, and I snap out of staring at his legs as he walks towards me, taking the wineglass from him. He’s caught some mackerel and he gutted them with his own hands, deft with the knife, throwing the innards overboard. I fish but I don’t do this part. To tell you the truth, even when I catch a fish, I make him take the hook out of the creature’s mouth and kill it. I can’t handle that, though it makes me a hypocrite, because I’ll eat them when he cooks them.

“You need help with the food?” I ask, and he raises his eyebrow with that disbelieving smile. “What? I can cook pasta.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he tells me. “It’s done. Salads, too. Just the fish to do.” He has the grill hot and he picks up the mackerel with tongs and puts them on the flames. The smell is incredible when they’re just fished out of the sea. Whenever I smell it elsewhere, in some seafood restaurant or on a beach somewhere, it brings me right back here with him.

“I’ll slice the lemon, at least,” I say, and he laughs softly and passes me the board and the knife with the lemon, even though it would probably be easier for him just to do it himself. He likes poking at the mackerel though, so at least I’m leaving him free to do that.

Sometimes he gets nostalgic when we come out here. Remember this match? he’ll say, or remember that time…? All kinds of things. He’s still going over all of it in his head, I think, how we were back then, how close we became, the sex in locker rooms, the soft eyes, the other guys we were both with. The ones that got away, too, though there were very few of those for him. If he had a crush it rarely went unreciprocated. We were never anything like a couple, him and me, we just took our chances in hotels and locker rooms all over the world, so it wasn’t like cheating if we had sex with other guys. We both loved the eroticism of the locker room, the bodies around us, the heady days of risking anything for a good fuck.

The mackerel is cooked and he puts it on plates and gets rice and salads from inside. He’s cooked the rice with lime and something else in it, some herb he brings from his garden. We squeeze lemon on the fish and he pours more wine. There are a few candles on the table. He makes it very romantic. We both like it that way. It _is_ romantic. He tangles his bare feet with mine under the table and brings up some story from some time at Roland Garros, and he swears I was there but I swear I wasn’t, because I can’t remember a thing about it. “No more wine for you,” he says, topping up my glass yet again. He still has those deep-cut dimples when he smiles and the candlelight flickers in his eyes and he’s so beautiful. He’s really so beautiful, still.

When we’re done, he slides around the bench and curls into me, resting his head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around him. We watch that last glow of light fade down behind the horizon, and then he turns to me and kisses me, and I swear it always, always feels like coming home.

Sometimes we stay out on deck, but he feels like the bed tonight. He holds out his hand and I follow him through the boat down to the bedroom and he throws open the windows before shucking off his shorts and t-shirt. I take him to bed and he curls around me, kissing me, and I know he can feel it too, that sense of bone-deep happiness being pressed to another man’s body. He opens his legs for me and I eat him until he’s whimpering, and then I turn his face to the pillow and fuck him. Half way through I lift up his hips so he’s on his knees and elbows and I send him to heaven. I know exactly how to do it. Until he’s delirious and begging to come and then I let him.

Once, in that delirium, I heard him. I never told him, but I heard him. If there was one that got away for him, then he was the one. _Roger_ , I heard him whimper, and there was an aching sadness in it, a longing. It choked me for a minute, the sound of it. I don’t know if he was imagining something or remembering something, but whatever it was, he wanted it with all his heart.

“Say my name,” I tell him, stilling my hips for a moment and breathing against the small of his back, pressing kisses to the dip of his spine.

He turns his head to look back at me, pushing sweaty hair off his forehead. “Feliciano,” he gasps. It’s hot and it’s needy. He needs this. He needs me. It’s not the same, I know it’s not the same, but I’m the one who gets to be here with him. I’m the one who can touch him and taste him and make him look like this, gleaming and unravelled in the dim light, the sheets knotted in his fists while he waits for me to start again, to drive him over the edge. It’s not the same, but it’s enough.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I debated what tags to use for this fic. For me, everything is Fedal, even from this perspective, and of course I didn't want to give anything away. I hope you don't feel cheated. :)


End file.
